


The Companion

by mandysimo13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: I APOLOGIZE, Kissing, Lots of kissing, M/M, pantsless cuddling, shenaniganz, some gross stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-21
Updated: 2014-02-21
Packaged: 2018-01-13 05:55:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1215187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mandysimo13/pseuds/mandysimo13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Edwardian-esque, harlequin-esque romance novel in which Mycroft hires John to cure Sherlock of an intense opium addiction. After their initial meeting John is fascinated and shenaniganz promptly ensue.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Companion

**_ Ch. 1 _ **

John had read and reread the letter a dozen times to try to decipher the real reason he’d been asked to visit the Holmes manor. One of the residents, Mycroft Holmes, had requested his presence to welcome the doctor personally to the little community of Sharpton. But if that were the case wouldn’t he have come to visit at his new office in the main square?

All questions would be soon answered. The carriage that Mycroft had provided John turned off the main road out of town and onto the long drive that led to the Holmes manor. The drive was  surrounded by giant, old oaks and maples. John leaned into the window to get a better view of the natural archway the trees provided and thought just how lovely they must be in fall. After a few minutes the manor came into view and John sucked in a breath at it’s grandeur. It was a massive four story building with a cream colored brick on the outside. The edges of the building were trimmed with beautiful masonry in the form of ivy vines and under all the windows were etches of branches and leaves. The family clearly was very proud of it’s private hunting forest if their home was anything to go on.

The driver pulled up to the front of the building and John waited for him to round the carriage and open the door. While he waited he straightened his jacket and reached for his medical bag, which he always brought with him. He always carried a change of clothes and a few necessary pieces of medical equipment; never knew when one would need to make a house call. He stepped out and took a closer look at the magnificence of the building up close. His attention was quickly pulled from the stunning craftsmanship when he noticed a man emerge from the building.

“You must be Doctor John Watson,” the man extended a hand in greeting, “pleasure to make your acquaintance.” John gripped the offered hand and smiled.

“Indeed I am, at your service Mister…”

The man smiled and chuckled, “ Mister is better served for my father, sir. You may call me Anderson. I am the Holmes family’s personal servant. The most trusted and longest standing. Follow me and I will take you to the new Master Holmes, the elder of the late Master’s two sons.”

John followed Anderson inside, “I would presume that would be Mycroft Holmes?”

“You are correct. Just up the stairs to his study. Follow me, if you please.”

When they crossed the threshold John had only a moment to scan the immediate area. From what he could tell the manor was decorated in dark, distinguished colors and rich darkwoods. He placed a hand on the banister and started to climb the stairs.

“How long have the Holmes’ lived at the manor?’

“They’ve been here for the last six generations when the first Master Holmes started the town. He was the first landowner in the province.”

“Interesting.” They got to the top of the stairs for the second story and took a right. At the second door Anderson paused and knocked. When they heard an irritated, “come in,” Anderson opened the door to let them into the room.

“May I introduce Doctor John Watson? Doctor Watson, this is Master Holmes.”

Mycroft was seated at a large desk that was faced away from a sizable picture window that let light flood the room. Without even looking up from the papers on his desk Mycroft said, “Leave us, Anderson.” And without a word Anderson bowed and backed out the room and closed the door. John was left standing in the middle of the room clutching his bag in one hand and his travelling hat and gloves in the other. “Ahem,” John coughed into his fist to get the Master’s attention.

“Yes, yes, have a seat.” He pointed to the chair positioned in front of the desk facing Mycroft. John took his seat and placed his items on the floor and folded his hands on his lap and waited for Mycroft to take the lead in the conversation. Upon closer inspection it seemed that Mycroft was finishing a letter he had received.

After a moment he looked up at John and eyed him before speaking. “So you’re the new town doctor, then? Guess you’ll do.”

“Sorry?” John was confused. Mycroft slid his chair back and stood looking down at John. “I presume your reason for being here is not entirely clear to you?”

“It’s true I’m not entirely clear on my purpose for being here. You seem healthy enough to not need a doctor and I hear you frequent town often so I was confused when I was summoned here rather than meeting in my office.”

Mycroft turned his back to him to stare out the window and rock on his heels. “Yes it would seem silly at first glance. I certainly don’t need any physician. Picture of health I assure you. I called you here for my brother.”

“I had heard that the late Master had two sons but I have yet to meet your brother. Sherlock, was it?”

“Sherlock, indeed.” John heard him sigh as Mycroft faced him. “My brother is in a bit of trouble, you see. Terrible opium addiction, he smokes his pipe constantly. Recently he’s mixed this habit with an intense desire to sit in the dark and has refused to eat anything. I think he’s sulking because I wouldn’t let him experiment on the family’s hunting dogs anymore.” He walked over to a pedestal that was next to his desk with a glass bowl sitting atop it. There was a single beta fish swimming inside and Mycroft trailed a finger along the rim, thinking to himself. “Really, experimenting on useful creatures is just plain wasteful.”

“So what would you like me to do? Try to get him to eat and take away his pipe?”

“Precisely. He needs a voice of reason to goad him back to some semblance of reason. I figured one belonging to a doctor might help more than mine. He seems to think anything I say is either a joke or insult.” He turned to face john, ‘but I warn you, he’s very stubborn and, quite honestly, incorrigibly rude. He may do what you ask but only lots of kicking and screaming.”

“I’d be happy to help. It’s the reason I became a doctor. I want to help people.” Mycroft smiled a crooked smile at that and walked to the doctor and extended a hand. John took it and shook it with vigor. It had been such a long time since he had a challenge and this Sherlock sounded right up his alley. “One thing, sir. Where would you like me to perform my duties. I certainly have enough room to house him in town while he recovers but, if you prefer, I have no immediate matters to attend to. Apparently, everyone in town is as healthy as you appear to be. I can make myself available here for the duration of Sherlock’s rehabilitation if you have a room to spare. I would just need an afternoon to collect the necessary items for an extended stay.”

“If you would be so kind. We could set you up in the room across from Sherlock. Proximity would certainly be valuable with that one.”

They took a few moments to discuss payment and the use of the carriage back into town the next day to gather Doctor Watson’s belongings. They both agreed that an immediate start would be most beneficial.

“Should I proceed to his room then? You say he’s locked himself away? Do you mean with an actual locked door between him and the rest of the world?”

“It very well may be locked. Can’t tell. The only servant who will go near him when he’s in this state is Anderson and he gave up trying to bring him meals two days ago after he was nearly scalded by coffee after Sherlock threw it at him.”

“Ah, well then…” He started towards the door in search of the wayward brother when Mycroft called after him, “oh, and don’t bother with his room. It’s empty. He hardly sleeps there anymore unless it’s cold outside. He’s taken up in the gatehouse next to the kennel and stable. For some reason he would rather spend his time in the dark above horse shit.”

Suddenly the feeling of happy undertaking bled away to a sense of dread. Had he bitten off more than he could chew?

**  
  
  
**

**_ Ch.2 _ **

Anderson was waiting outside the door to lead John to his own room and then to the gatehouse. He had bet that John would take the job and was ready to make his way easier. “If you’d follow me I’ll show you your room. And Sherlock’s of course.”

John followed with some apprehension. “Does he often adopt such behavior?”

“Only when he hasn’t gotten his way. He much like a child that way. But he has never been this way for so long. He’s been like this for just over a month. The Master was all set to let him continue to have his little fit but when he stopped eating he became very worried.”

“Understandable.” They had reached the other end of the hallway and stood outside two doors. Anderson opened the one of the right and gestured for John to enter. The room was clean and modestly decorated. A largish wardrobe stood next to the door across from a queen sized, four poster bed and a trunk sat at its foot. Under the window was a small writing desk with some paper and an ink pot laid upon it. Against the other wall stood a mirrored vanity with a stool and on it was some personal grooming items including a ewer and bowl for morning washing. The room was wallpapered with a light pattern of powder blue thistles against a white background with matching bedcoverings. Quite impressive for a guest room.

“Fresh water and towels will be provided to you every afternoon before dinner so you may wash at your leisure. Should you require any additional washing water don’t hesitate to ask. And if you are a bathing man we can provide you hot water and a tub located just down the hall. This floor is the living quarters for both the Master and Sherlock and the late Mister and Misses Holmes, god rest them. Upstairs is where I, the cook, the other house servants and stable hands sleep. Above that is the storage attic. You’ll never need to be up there so I won’t give you a tour.” He gestured to the door and John preceded him and waited for Anderson to close the door to his room.

“This is Sherlock’s room. I apologize for anything you may hear, see or smell in here.”

“Smell?”

“Yes. He’s a very untidy young man and refuses to let us make up his room for him. He has a fondness for chaos.” Anderson turned the knob and stepped aside for John to peek in.

God, did it reek! There was most definitely something dead in there and John didn’t stick around to find out what. He took one look of the mass of clothes and books piled around the desk and bed and decided to tackle that particular problem after he had gotten Sherlock to eat something.

“To the gatehouse then?”

“Of course.” Anderson led the way down the stairs. He led John through the main part of the house. “On the first floor we have the dining room, parlour, kitchen, library, and a couple of workmen’s rooms. A sewing room, laundry room and the like. Through the dining room to the kitchen there is a door that leads out to the back of the house and out to the kennel and stable. Next to that is the gatehouse with a loft above it. The gatehouse loft was attached to the hayloft in the stable. He walked him right up to the door of the gatehouse and stopped. “And this, dear Doctor, is where I leave you to your fate. Best of luck.” Anderson gave him the briefest of amused smiles, bowed and walked off towards the house.

John stood mouth agape and tried to think of the best way to proceed. Should he knock and leave room for softness in him or barge in and take charge? Mycroft implied that he needed a heavy hand when dealing with Sherlock. _Barging in it is_ , he thought. He placed his hand on the handle, took a breath and pushed it open.

The door opened with a complaining creak and light seeped into the inky darkness inside. John cleared his throat and uttered, “hello?”

Nothing. Not even a skitter.

_Was he even in here still? Did he decide to pop off for a walk on the grounds?_ After a week without food? He sincerely doubted that. “Sherlock? My name is Doctor John Watson. Your brother has asked me to drop in and introduce myself.”

An annoyed groan answered him and gave him a sense of where the person who uttered it might be. The sound seemed like it was coming from above him. “Might I come in?” Another groan answered him. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He pushed both doors open as wide as they would go to let in as much light as possible. When the light reached the loft above John heard what could only be described as a hiss and a ruffle of fabric. Clearly, it had been sometime since Sherlock had seen the sun.

“Curse you, bloody cur! Why can’t my meddling brother take the hint! I do not need a doctor!” John shook his head at the childish whine in the man’s voice. He spotted the stairs to the loft and started up.

“Now, now, Sherlock. He’s worried for your health. He says you haven’t been eating. Wouldn’t do well for you to die of starvation. Leaves behind a very unattractive corpse.” He received a snort of amusement in return. John could hear a muffled voice in the darkness, “yes, yes, truly that is the worst thing to happen now isn’t it?”

When John reached the top of the stairs he saw a crate that had been used as a makeshift table with a candlestick that had long since been useless due to a lack of candles, a sizable stack of  books, and lying beside that a violin. _So he’s a musician. Might be useful to his recovery,_ John thought to himself. A little further past the table lay a heap of horse blankets with a human shape huddled beneath them. The sound of John’s footsteps coming towards it stirred it to life and a single eye and nose emerged from one corner of the blanket. “You’re very brave to come venturing up here with the black sheep of the family.”

“Well, business is slow. People just aren’t sick in body so I’m here to care for the sick of mind. And your brother is paying a pretty penny to get you up and going again.”

“Ha! I bet he is. Well, tell him it’s unnecessary and be off on your way then. No sick minds here.” And with that eye and nose disappeared into the blanket again. John sighed, stubborn indeed. He strode over to the pile of cloth and human and grabbed a hold and pulled. A cry of surprise was accompanied by a jerk on the other end of the blanket before John had uncovered even half a body.

“Now, don’t be childish or I may have to fetch a switch and stick you in a corner like a petulant toddler.” He tugged again, this time with both hands fisted in the blanket and succeeded in uncovering a half clothed young man. Even in the dim light of the gatehouse John could see how pale and thin Sherlock was. He had his work cut out for him to get this young man back in fine shape.

Sherlock had curled himself into a tight ball with his face smashed into his arms to block out the light. “Now, wouldn’t you like to have a little breakfast,” he looked at his pocketwatch, “or in your case, brunch? It is a little after noon but I think if I sweet talk the cook I could get you a nice plate of eggs and bacon.” John laid a gentle but firm hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He jumped at the contact and his head popped up to look at the person who dared breach his bubble of personal space. He slapped his hand onto John’s to try to push it off him but then he looked at John’s face. Sherlock’s eyes danced over John’s face and whatever he saw there softened him for a moment. Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head, “if you insist.”

John couldn’t believe how easily he was able to get Sherlock interested in anything other than wallowing and wasting away in the dark. Almost too easy. Maybe he was actually hungry and wanted the attention. He was skeptical but didn’t question the forward momentum. “Well then, let’s find you a shirt.”

**  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
**

_ **Ch.3** _

John led a wobbly Sherlock into the kitchen. He refused to leave behind the stinking horse blanket and insisted on wrapping himself in it like a cloak before they made it to the house. _Baby steps, I suppose,_ John thought to himself and he supported Sherlock to a stool next to a prep table in the kitchen. There was no one in the kitchen to prepare something for the Sherlock so John decided to do the job himself. He didn’t want to risk going off to find someone only to come back to find Sherlock gone and huddled in the gatehouse again. He figured a simple meal of eggs and bacon and some toast would be just the thing. He took off his overcoat and hung it on a rack filled with aprons and reached for a relatively clean one to tie around his waist.

All kitchens basically work the same and in a couple minutes John had gathered everything he needed for a modest breakfast. He even found a little milk and he poured some into a cup, placed it in front of Sherlock and told him to drink it. Truly, it was like dealing with a child. Sherlock seemed to move independently of himself, his hand reaching for the glass while his eyes never left John. He watched him flit around the kitchen, cutting a few strips of bacon, cracking eggs, and cooking over the always lit fire. It was as if he didn’t quite trust that someone truly wanted him to eat and he was waiting for the switch part of the bait-and-switch game.

John finally put a plate full of food in front of Sherlock and he just stared at it like it was a completely foreign concept. After a minute or so John pulled up a stool across from him. “Eat. Before it gets cold.”

Sherlock’s eyes kept flitting back between his breakfast and John’s face. He scooped a mouthful of scrambled eggs with a fork and sniffed at it. After deeming it edible he put them in his mouth and chewed. The meal was silent except for the sounds of chewing and silverware scraping until he had cleaned his plate.

Sherlock looked at the empty dish unsure of where to go from there. “So what happens now, Doctor?”

“If we’re going to be spending time together I’d really rather be on a first name basis with each other. Please, call me John.”

“So what happens now...John?” His mouth scrunched like he was unaccustomed to first names and they left a weird taste.

“Well, since I got you out of the horse shit I think maybe we ought to get you smelling a little less like horse shit, yes?”

“I suppose.”

 

“Splendid. Then I need you to get up to your room straight away and find some cleaner clothes while I run to find the handmaid to warm some water for a bath.”

Sherlock groaned in displeasure. “Must I? Can’t I just wipe my face with a damp cloth and call it a day? I’m very tired.”

“That would be because in a matter of hours your body is going to rebel against you as you start to go through withdrawal. Part of my reason for being here is to get you clean of the opium currently working its way through your system.”

Sherlocks eyes went wide with fear and he tried to run from his seat but John caught him before he could run too far. In his desperate attempt to flee Sherlock tripped on a corner of the blanket still wrapped around him and took John with him as he fell to the floor.

“Oof! Get off me you meddlesome cow!” Sherlock struggled to get out from beneath John but the doctor was quick and pinned him to the ground. The blanket turned into a net from which Sherlock couldn’t escape. He kept spouting insults and squirmed until Anderson and one of the house servants, hearing the commotion came running in. Anderson bent to help John carry him upstairs.

Once Sherlock was secured in their arms and was moving John shouted, “get some hot water ready! Sherlock is going to have a nice hot bath even if it kills him.” The servant rushed off to grab the water while the three men, slowly but surely, made their way to the bathroom.

“This is not dignified! I am not to be manhandled by my own goddamned servants! Anderson you release me at once or I’ll sic the dogs on you! Give them a hunt they’ll truly enjoy!” Sherlock thrashed and succeeded in bruising only his own elbows and knees on the way up the stairs. They finally reached the door to the bathroom and Anderson, awkwardly trying to hold Sherlock’s feet at the same time, got the door open and they spilled into the room.

They dropped him unceremoniously and Anderson moved to block the path to the door. “With all due respect, sir, your brother is the one who pays my salary.” Anderson coughed to cover a little chuckle, “ and if he hires a doctor to give you a bath, well then, who am I to argue?”

Sherlock growled in his general direction and started pacing the room trying to find a way out of his current situation. They heard a knock at the door and Sherlock stopped to eye the door with hopeful ambition.

“Don’t open that door just yet.” John stepped between Sherlock and Anderson and tried to catch his eye. “Now you listen to me you stubborn mule. Everything that happens to you in the next week can be your choice. You can choose to sit like a good boy and enjoy a nice bath and maybe a cup of cocoa afterwards. Or, alternatively, you can be pushed into the tub and scrubbed mercilessly like a pack animal before being thrown in your room to recover from your bad decisions on your own.”

Sherlock looked at John with skeptical silence.

John continued. “I can be there at your side to ease your pain through the process of purging your body of the poison you filled it with. Your brother hired me to get you to health again but he never told me to be gentle with you.” He took a couple steps closer to Sherlock and lowered his voice. “I could stuff food down your throat like a fattened goose until your body has regained a healthy weight. I could force a great number of unpleasant things on you until your brother has deemed you fit and you are rid of me. But I prefer to do all things with mutual understanding and cooperation.”

Sherlock’s stare seemed to ice over with cold understanding. He remained silent, letting the doctor continue his tirade to convince him.

“You try to work with me Sherlock and I will do everything in my power to make this an easy transition for all parties involved. Who knows, we might even come out of this ordeal as friends.”

Seeing that there was no way out in the immediate future Sherlock closed his eyes and let annoyed breath escape his nostrils. He turned his back to his captors and began to disrobe.

“Now you may open the door.” Anderson let three servants in. The one in the kitchen had obviously called for backup, and one by one they each poured two buckets of hot water into the porcelain tub in the center of the room; each one averting their gaze from the filthy, naked man standing next to it.

Sherlock cleared his throat, “Anderson. Since it seems there’s no way of getting out of this might I ask for a favor?”

“If it’s in my power to give it will be given gladly.”

“In my room there is a jar of salts on my desk. They will smell of jasmine. Would you fetch them for me? If you insist on making me smell pleasant I insist on choosing what I smell like.”

“Of course, sir. Be back in a moment.” He left the room after sharing a cautious glance with John silently telling him not to let Sherlock flee the house naked. He certainly wouldn’t put it past him.

The water was steaming and made the room feel warmer and sticky. The servants filed out and the last one before closing the door asked if they required anything else. John asked for a few extra towels and for one of them to go through Sherlock’s room to clear away the soiled linens and to bring back something clean for their young master to wear. With their instructions set they left the room.

Silence enveloped the room. Sherlock stuck his fingers in the water and hissed at its temperature. “Too bloody hot,” he spat. John smirked and started to collect the discarded clothes strewn around the room. “Good. The sooner your salts melt the sooner you’ll be clean and on the road to recovery.”

“Oh, what do you know about recovery?” Sherlock turned his back and went to the window at the back of the room. He wasn't ashamed of his nakedness and he seemed to flaunt it in front of John. John looked over the expanse of exposed skin and mused, _at least his rump hadn't suffer during his self imposed fasting_. John started at his own thoughts,  _where did that come from?_ No matter, with his back turned Sherlock couldn't see John’s appreciative glance.

A knock sounded on the door and without waiting for an answer Anderson walked in carrying a little jar filled with bath salts. He shook a handful into his palm and spread them across the water. The plinking on the water’s surface caused Sherlock to turn around. He stuck his fingers in again, and finding it to his liking, swished his arm in to make sure the salts had dissolved enough and swung a leg over the lip of the tub and sunk into its depth. He sighed involuntarily and when Anderson chuckled at the enjoyment Sherlock had fought so hard against he received a very indignant scowl in return. Sherlock huffed in dismissal and turned his head to face the window.

Another small knock sounded on the door and Anderson let in the servant carrying an armful of towels, a sponge and a change of clothes for Sherlock. He set them on a little table next to the tub and made a swift exit. Anderson followed and when he reached the door he paused. “Will either of you gentlemen be requiring any further assistance?”

John pulled his eyes away from the sight in the tub and faced Anderson. “No thank you Anderson. I will call if we need anything.”  He flicked his eyes at Sherlock. “Or, more likely, yell from several rooms over.”

“Of course.” Anderson bowed and left the room shutting the door behind him. They were alone again.

The tub was large enough for a man of John’s height to sit comfortably with legs almost completely straight. Sherlock, however, had to bend his knees and they poked up from the water. His arms were hung on the outside of the tub and dangled towards the floor. He had laid his head back on the lip so his neck was stretched but comfortable. John heard another sigh of unexpected relief and he couldn't take his eyes off the sight in front of him. Thank God Sherlock’s eyes were closed and couldn’t see John lick his lips in unsought fascination. Fascination mixed with the smallest twinges of desire.

 

John sought to remove these thoughts and did the only thing he could think of; answer Sherlock’s almost forgotten question. “You asked what I knew about recovery.” Sherlock’s head bolted up and his eyes snapped open at the sudden presence of sound.

“What,” Sherlock groaned, “are you on about now?” He let his head sink back onto the warm porcelain beneath him and closed his eyes again, listening.

“You asked me before during your little tantrum what I knew about recovery. Before I came to be the practicing physician in town, and your wet nurse, I was an army medic. I treated many men returning from the battlefield, men who had grisly wounds. Whole arms and legs and faces obliterated. Many of them were treated with morphine which is made from the same source as opium.”

Sherlock leaned out of the tub and grabbed the sponge to begin scrubbing his body. “I know where opium comes from. You think me a simpleton?” He started with his feet, scrubbing between the toes. For someone who fought so hard against it he seemed to enjoy the feeling of being clean.

“Would an intelligent man stop eating just to make a point to his brother?” Sherlock huffed and moved on to scrubbing his legs. “As I was saying,” John continued, “many of them were treated with opiates to ease their suffering during treatment. Unfortunately, after a couple weeks of regular use most of the men in hospital couldn’t function without it.”

“Perish the thought,” Sherlock said sarcastically. He worked the sponge across his chest and wherever the sponge went it left pink blossoms behind. John found it difficult to stop staring and had to close his eyes to continue his train of thought.

“Did you know the army doesn’t have a step-down program? When you no longer require morphine for pain relief they tell the nurses to stop administering it. Reallocation of supplies it’s called. When there’s a limited supply they don’t stop to think of the aftermath.”

“I am well aware of what will happen to me when I stop taking opium. First I’ll become anxious and prone to mood swings mixed with a snotty nose and extreme exhaustion. After that we move onto the really entertaining symptoms; vomiting, muscle spasms and shitting myself.” He ended with dipping his head between his knees to wet his head.

John’s eyes went wide, _he has no right to be that flexible._ He could feel his cheeks get hot and he closed his eyes and shook his head to clear indecent images of a bendy Sherlock from his mind when Sherlock’s voice startled him. Caught. It was plainly obvious what he was thinking. “W-what...what did you say?”  

John could see the gears turning in Sherlock’s head. He was planning something and John didn’t like it. Sherlock stood up and stepped out of the tub. He took a couple steps to stand in front of a redder by the minute John, dripping from head to toe.  “I said,” Sherlock said with a cruel grin,  “am I clean enough for you? Can we get on with this whole ‘my body rebelling against me’ ordeal?”

John swept his eyes over the expanse of skin in front of him and nodded. “It’ll do.”

“Good.” Sherlock turned around and bent over to get a towel and John bit his lip in frustration. He had never had a good poker face and now this little brat man-child knew that he found him attractive. Whatever happened John must keep his thoughts under control and not let Sherlock take advantage. Though that might be harder than John hoped.

He turned his back to give the semblance of privacy while Sherlock dressed. Really, he was trying to calm his heartbeat and compose himself. A few minutes of cloth rustling Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder and John turned to face him. Aside from his hair in a tangled mess and bare feet he was almost presentable.

“Now that you’re clean and fed we will proceed to your room to make it more comfortable for the long road ahead.”

Sherlock cocked his head to the side and asked, “why? It’s only going to be filthy and smelly when we’re done. Why do the cleaning twice?”

“Because. I think it’s more beneficial to rid oneself of harmful feelings and desires in a place that is free from chaos.”

Sherlock got within a hands-breadth of John, their faces leveled. “If you don’t like chaos,” he whispered, “well then, Doctor. You’ve come to the wrong house.” Then in a blur of motion he strode past John and out the door.

After a moment of bafflement John collected his wits and followed Sherlock out the door. He found him in his room staring at what was left of the mess in his room. As per John’s instructions the bed linens were changed and every scrap of clothing that was strewn about the room had been removed. The absence of clothing, however, did nothing the blunt the daunting task of cleaning. And the room still choked them with unidentified smell. John was about to open his mouth when he realized that he heard Sherlock’s breathing quicken and he saw his shoulders shudder with labored breath.

“Sherlock,” he reached out to grab his shoulder. “Are you alright? Are you feeling withdrawal symptoms already?”

Sherlock jerked away from John’s touch. “I am not feeling withdrawal,” he said through gritted teeth “What I am feeling is anger. Who told them to enter my room and remove my things?”

“I did. Don’t you want a clean bed to lie in while you’re writhing in sweat and discomfort?” John dismissed the anger as just the beginning of withdrawal and crossed the room to open the window to let in the fresh air. He breathed in the clean scent of the nearby forest and detected a hint of rain on the horizon. As he contemplated the difficulty of his ride into town during a storm he was knocked from his reverie by a shoe connecting with the back of his skull.

John screamed at him and cupped the back of his head. “What is your problem?”

“What’s my problem,” Sherlock cried. “What do you think you’re doing having people rifle through my possessions? Doors are closed for a reason and that reason is privacy, John. It is not for you to say who gets to come waltzing through here.” Sherlock was pacing the floor eyes trained on the doctor. He was obviously restraining himself from further violence. _But why,_ John wondered. If he had no qualms of berating everyone else in this house why is he sparing me? He knew that Sherlock wanted to put hands on him. He even expected it after he chucked things at him.

He decided to try to play to his sarcastic tendencies. “If you’re jealous that they did the easy part for you then you can quit your whining. If they had found anything truly horrific I’m sure we would have heard a scream or something. If you like I don’t even have to touch anything.” John sat on the bed and clasped his hands. “I could just sit here for support.”

“If you expect me to endure this circus without you lending a hand then you, sir are sorely mistaken.” He grabbed the doctor and hauled him to his feet. He moved surprisingly fast for someone about to spend a week in bed miserably leaking from every orifice. John put his hands up in surrender thinking that Sherlock was going to do something to harm his person.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. After a moment of charged silence he said, “you can start with washing the windows if you insist on being here. I will handle my desk, thank you very much.”

With that, the two men went about their work in silence and that suited John just fine. He hoped that enough of the room would be cleaned before Sherlock was useless. _Hopefully this goes quickly with him_ , John thought. _Don’t think I can take much more surliness without slapping him. Bastard._

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Ch.4

In the span of an hour Sherlock had shoved everything on his desk into the appropriate drawers and spaces on the surface of the desk and he had moved on to putting shoes, belts and hats into an enormous trunk at the foot of his bed. Next to the bed were two large matching wardrobes. He paused in front of them, deep in thought. The sun was just starting to dip in the sky when he bent over and grunted in pain.

John was prepared for when Sherlock would start the process of detoxing. He ran over and caught Sherlock before his knees buckled and dropped him to the floor. “Anderson! Quickly, it’s starting!”

He dragged the quivering, moaning man over to the bed and laid him down as gently as he could. Footsteps pounded the hallway and then Anderson appeared in the doorway. He clutched the door frame and leaned in, “what do you require, Doctor Watson?”

“I’m going to need a bucket of very cold water, blankets, a couple of toilet pails and some towels and a washcloths. It’s about to turn very ugly very fast. He shouldn’t have this type of reaction for a few more hours.” He looked down at Sherlock whose face was contorted in pain. “It’s worse than I had previously thought, I’m afraid.”

Anderson left them and came back several minutes later armed with the desired items. After seeing to their placement John turned to Anderson asking, “would you mind sitting with him for a moment while I fetch my medical bag? I have a few sedatives that we might require should his  pain become unbearable.”

“It’s already unbearable, you hack doctor,” Sherlock screamed from the bed. He had curled into a ball to try to ease his cramping muscles.

Anderson nodded and went to stand guard at the edge of the bed as the doctor headed for his own room. He took the moment to wash his hands and face and steel himself for the long night ahead.

By midnight the three men were completely exhausted. Sherlock’s body wasted no time in wreaking havoc on the young man and it soon began expelling every body fluid that seemed to exist in him. Long after there was even bile in his stomach his body just seemed to contract and spasm causing him to nearly choke on his own tongue with the desire to vomit. His correct prediction of shitting himself was granted most unseemly time and time again until it seemed there were no fluids left in his body.

By the time he had stop retching and shitting he was soaked in sweat and left heaving on his sick-soaked bed. The servants had anticipated what was going to happen and hadn’t put the usual richer sheets on his bed and had opted for some older and less valuable sheets on the bed which had to be changed twice during the night.

Eventually his body, worn from the marathon it had just run, stopped jumping and spasming and he lay still on the bed gasping. “J-john…” he choked.

John knelt by his side. “Sherlock?”

“Water. C-can’t…”

“Shh. Don’t talk.” He stood and leaned over to procure a glass of water and, back at his side, tipped the lip of the glass to Sherlock’s mouth. Water spilled over his lips but enough made it into his mouth for Sherlock to swallow it down. He closed his eyes and shuddered.

John mopped Sherlock’s brow with a cool, damp cloth. “I think the worst for tonight is passed. Tomorrow will be easier. By this time next week you’ll feel like a new man.” Sherlock tried to growl at him but he was so exhausted it sounded nothing near menacing, more like whimpering, and he rolled his head away from him. John replaced the glass on the table and woke up Anderson who was dozing in a chair near the door.

“I think I’m going to catch a few hours. Wake me if he requires anything or if the vomiting starts again.” Anderson yawned and stretched and relieved the doctor. “I’ll leave my door open. Truly, if you need anythi-”

“Yes doctor. Go, you’ve earned a rest.” He pulled the chair over to Sherlock’s bed, grabbed a book off the desk and settled in for his night watch. John saw that he had things under control and strode across the hall to his room and, true to his word, left both doors open so he could easily accessible should he be needed.

He sat on his bed to remove his shoes and the next thing he knew it was morning and Anderson was shaking him awake. He had fallen asleep still in his traveling clothes, soiled by the night’s events, and was suddenly aware of how he must appear. “What is it? Is Sherlock alright?”

“He’s just fine. He’s still sleeping. I just woke you because now would be the opportune moment to head into town to collect your things.”

“Of course. Give me a few moments and I’ll be downstairs straight away.” Anderson left him and John rose to change his clothes. He took a moment to wash his face and run a washcloth over his chest and between his legs. Nothing worse than feeling sticky and uncomfortable in clean clothes. As he buttoned his shirt he peeked into Sherlock’s room. He was laid out on his back hands clutched in the sheets but otherwise still. Hopefully he wouldn’t get sick again before John returned.

John went back to his room long enough to grab his traveling coat and brush his hair back into place before bounding down the stairs and out the door.

The trip to town was uneventful. He spent about an hour in his office to check on paperwork and inform his secretary that he would be assisting the Holmes on an important and private matter for the week and to alert him via messenger should anyone require his assistance. He checked the post, packed a bag for a week’s worth of clothes and toiletries and had a quick breakfast of tea and toast then climbed back in the carriage headed towards the Holmes manor.

The entire trip into town and back took about three hours and by the time John returned to the manor it was almost noon. When he opened the door and heard screaming from upstairs he knew Sherlock was awake and that the morning had not gone well. He clutched his bag and ran up the stairs. He skidded into the room and found Sherlock jerking around and slapping the bed in pain. Anderson was trying to hold him down and keep him from flopping off the bed. John ran over to him to hold Sherlock’s eyes open and shouted over Sherlock’s screaming, “what happened?”

“I don’t know! I came back to check on him and all of a sudden he woke up screaming. He’s been like this for half an hour or so. Can you give him anything?”

“Right,” John hurried to his bag that had found a spot on the desk and searched for a particular vial, filled a syringe, and stuck it in Sherlock’s arm. He stopped moving almost immediately and his body and face relaxed into sleep.

“What did you give him,” Anderson asked, sinking into a chair.

“I gave him a small amount of morphine. Apparently his addiction is more severe that Mycroft led me to believe. Too long without the drug while we try to bring him to sobriety might actually kill him. We’ll just have to be careful with how much and when we administer and monitor his progress. Eventually he won’t need it but I think we’ll need longer than a week.”

He sat on the bed and mopped his brow with a cool cloth and laid one around his neck. “He’s going to need something to keep him hydrated. Would you mind asking the cook to start a broth for him? I don’t anticipate him waking for a few hours yet.”

“Absolutely. Would you require anything for yourself?”

“A cup of tea if you wouldn’t mind. And send for Mycroft please? I think I should stay and watch him.”

“Of course.” Anderson headed off towards the kitchen and John took his seat beside Sherlock’s bed. He sighed with distress at the task at hand but it was nothing he couldn’t handle he felt. He had gone soft. When he was in the army he handled ten times as many patients like Sherlock with hardly a thought. But, then again, he had had a dozen nurses and assistants to help. Here he had just himself and Anderson. Still none of the servants would assist when there might be danger to themselves and they kept well clear of this part of the house.

Sherlock twitched in his sleep and John reached over to check his pulse. It seemed to be returning to normal. Sherlock must be having some troubling dreams. Likely to happen in the process of detoxing. He had just sat back in his chair when he heard a knock at the door. He faced the door to find Mycroft standing in the doorway.

“You called for me, Doctor?”

“How long has your brother been addicted to opium?” John gave him a cold stare. Mycroft took a moment to answer, calculating how best to word his answer.

“It’s been, admittedly, too long. About three years or so. Since a family vacation to the orient before our parents fell ill.”

“Three years. You let him do this to himself for three years? It’s a wonder he hasn’t destroyed his body by now! Why didn’t you seek help before?” He stood and marched over to him full of rage. “I just had to give him morphine to stop him from hurting himself even worse. This is not going to be a walk in the park, Mycroft. I will need weeks with him to get him completely back to normal.”

“Whatever it takes, Doctor Watson. Whatever it takes.” He closed his eyes and clasped his hands behind his back and started rocking on his heels. “I didn’t seek help sooner because he would not listen to me. He was perfectly content to kill himself this way and I was perfectly content to let him do so. That is until our parents died last year.” He walked over to the foot of the bed where his brother slept, every now and again twitching in his sleep. “I realized that he was all I had left for family.” He faced the doctor, “I tried to make him see reason. I offered over and over again to get him a doctor and to get him sober. But the more I pushed, the more I insisted, the more he retreated from me. He started spending all his time in his room playing his violin and smoking. Every once in awhile he would emerge to berate the servants and experiment with this sedative, that poison, dissect this rodent. He’s been slipping slowly into madness and I had no idea where to turn. When you came into town I did some research into your background and thought ‘finally, someone who might be able to help him.’ Then when he stopped eating I knew that he was nearing his end and I called for you.”

He turned back to his brother and stood on the side of the bed and placed a hand on Sherlock’s hand. He let out a shuddering breath and covered his eyes with his free hand. “Please, John Watson. Save him. He’s all I have left.”

“I’ll do what I can.” He reached out and gripped his shoulder to show comfort and support. It was strange to see a man whose reputation was infamous for being stony and logical reduced nearly to tears. John cleared his throat to break the silence and told Mycroft to go see how Sherlock’s broth was coming. He would keep him informed on any changes in his brother’s condition. Mycroft nodded and left the room, pausing only for a moment to stare at the little figure in the bed, and walked down the hallway and to the kitchen.

John picked up all the soiled linens and the soiled buckets and placed them near the door. When there was nothing left to put in order and Sherlock was still sleeping he decided to sit and doze. After all, it was unlikely that he would get much sleep in the next couple weeks to come.

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**_ Ch.5 _ **

 

The rest of the week went by in a similar fashion. Hours of prolonged sleep from Sherlock followed by screaming fits, diarrhea, vomiting and when he was awake and not in pain he was simply rude and difficult. John spent long nights by his side watching over him while he slept and after a few days the spasms were less intense and he didn’t have to sedate him at night to get him to sleep.

One day while Sherlock was napping John decided to go out to the gatehouse to fetch Sherlock’s violin. He had heard from everyone in the house that when he was in good spirits Sherlock played the most beautifully joyful music. When he was in a foul mood he played frantically, by improvisation and whim alone. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes banshee-like. He found the instrument where it was left, leaning up against the table crate collecting dust.

When he returned to the room Sherlock was just waking and John brought it to his bed so he could see his violin. “If you’re feeling up to it you might want to play a little. Raise your spirits a bit.” John sat on the bed next to him and handed it over to Sherlock.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock muttered as he ran his hands along the instrument. John had never seen him hold anything as gently as he held his violin. He hoped this might be a turning point in his recovery. “I learned to play from my father when I was quite young. He tried to teach Mycroft first but he had no ear for the music.” He started tuning the strings, plucking them and twisting the knobs until they had the correct sound. Truth be told, neither did John but he didn’t interrupt Sherlock for fear that he would retreat into his head again.

“It was the one thing that I could do better than him. We were equal in many things but he bested me in schooling, chess, and a few other things. But this seemed to be the one thing that stuck in his craw.” He smirked and sat up a little straighter and placed the violin beneath his chin. When he drew the bow across the strings they emitted a smooth and sweet sound. He played a few notes and John watched his quick fingers dance over the strings.

Sherlock seemed to be playing something of his own composition and he rocked into the music slightly letting his emotion flow from the bow to the strings and then out into beautiful sounds. His eyes were closed and for the first time since he came to the manor John could see the lovable part of Sherlock. The part of him that Mycroft didn’t want to lose.

When he finished playing they shared a comfortable silence. John didn’t know what to say after such a display of raw, honest emotion. It looked like Sherlock was about to say something when they heard footsteps come down the hallway. John sat up and straightened himself just in time for Mycroft come into the room and break the silence.

“I heard you play. How are you feeling this morning?”

“Better. How have things been for you, brother mine? It seems I’ve been out of touch.”

Mycroft stepped up the the edge of the bed. “Oh, the usual. Helping the town run smoothly and all that. Just received word that London wants to build a new roadway to town. Been ironing out the details all week. Should be a boon for the town, I’m sure.”

Sherlock just nodded, eyes pointed to the violin in his hands.

Mycroft, obviously unaccustomed to a docile Sherlock, didn’t know what else to say. “Well, glad to see you getting well. Do call me should you need me.”

“I think the doctor and Anderson have me well in hand, brother.”

The briefest glimpse of hurt swept across Mycroft’s face. But it passed and he looked at John and said, “I’m sure he does.” He strode out of the room without a second glance and Sherlock exhaled a breath John hadn’t realized he was holding.

“Are you alright?” John laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. He felt him tense beneath his hand but he didn’t move away or brush him off.

“He’s trying on compassion. It’s not real. He just doesn’t want to be alone in the world. He won’t let me leave this world on my own accord until he is dead and buried.”

“If you had seen him a couple days ago, when you were so bad that you needed sedation, you wouldn’t be saying that. He showed genuine concern for you Sherlock.”

Sherlock seemed unconvinced. Suddenly he thrust the violin into John’s hands and whipped off the bed covers and tried to get out of bed. He wobbled on his feet but felt solid enough to try to walk. “Come, John. I think I could do with some fresh air.”

John put the violin and bow down on the desk and tried to steer Sherlock back to bed. “Do you really think it’s a good idea to go wandering around after the week you’ve had? If you’d like some fresh air we could open the window and you could sit and watch the birds or something.”

“Simply would not do, my dear doctor. Simply must be outside or nothing,” he said excitedly as he stripped off his bedclothes and jammed his arms and legs into the appropriate garments and strode out of the room and headed for the stairs. John followed purely to see how far he would get before he collapsed. Half starved and recovering from an intense week of detoxing he didn’t think he would get far. Sherlock made his way out of the house via the kitchen door and everyone in his path scuttled to get out of his way.

Sherlock paused a moment when the sunlight hit him, his eyes adjusting to the light. John didn’t think he would last long with his sudden burst of adrenaline but he stayed close behind realizing that nothing short of a shot of morphine would stop him now. “The sun has no business being so damn bright,” Sherlock said irritably. John snorted back a laugh as he followed Sherlock towards a path that led to the garden on the side of the house opposite of the stables. The garden had your typical flowers; roses, violets and the like. But it also had a large oak tree in the far corner with a bench beneath. This was where Sherlock was headed it seemed. _At least he doesn’t plan on taking a hike in the woods,_ John mused and took his time smelling the roses as Sherlock bee-lined for the bench.

John gave him a few minutes to himself and made his way slowly to the bench beneath the tree stopping here and there to smell this flower and touch that leaf. It was refreshing to be out under the open sky after a week trapped a house stinking of the body’s foulness. When John reached the bench he sat next to Sherlock, the space between them no bigger than an arms length, and let sound of the world around them be the conversation.

A gentle breeze tickled the leaves above them making a live, rustling sound that was accompanied by the cooing and cawing of birds overhead and horses nickering and snorting from across the way in the stalls. John breathed deeply. He loved the country. So much cleaner and calmer than London. No mistake, he loved the city too. He was a born and raised Londoner but when it came down to it he always wanted to make a home in the country.

“Do you hunt, John?”

“Can’t say that I have. Why? Thinking of taking up the horses and dogs and going for a chase?”

Sherlock snorted in amusement and tilted his head up to look at the leaves on the tree, the shapes of the spaces in between, and watch as they fluttered in the wind. “No. But I thought that you might enjoy once I’m fixed up. You expressed an interest in being friends.”

“That I did. Are you interested in having a friend Sherlock?”

“I’ve never had a true friend before. Thought you would be the perfect test subject. You don’t seem turned off by my boorish behavior. In fact, you don’t seem turned off by me in the slightest.” He turned his face to look John in the eye and gave him a knowing grin. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten your embarrassing display of unwanted desire the day we met. I could tell by the look on your face you fancied me but didn’t want to take what you wanted.”

“That would be because you’re my patient as of present. It would be extremely unethical for me to take advantage.”

“Who said you would be the one taking advantage?”

Suddenly the space between them seemed a lot closer than was comfortable for John. He made to get up but Sherlock grabbed his arm, just above the elbow, to stop him from fleeing. Sherlock had never reached out to John before and that realization was the only thing that kept him rooted to the spot just as surely as the roots attached the tree above them to the earth. “Don’t try to hide your desire from me. One of the downsides of me being sober is I am more perceptive and more likely to poke around in your brain.” John dared not look away, breathe, or move away from or closer to Sherlock. “What interesting images lie inside your brain, John Watson? I’ll soon find out.”

He let go of John’s arm, but John still hadn’t made a decision on what to do. If he were to stay Sherlock might actually discover something that John himself was not ready to face. If he left he would lose face in front of the man he was supposed to treat. To hell with dignity, he thought and made a quick retreat and said over his shoulder, “I’ll send for Anderson to collect you in a few minutes. Lunch will be ready soon.”

John could almost feel the victory smile spread across Sherlock’s face as he sprinted back to the house. _ That incorrigible brat will be the death of me. _

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**_ Ch.6 _ **

 

John kept his distance for the rest of the day, only checking in on Sherlock every couple of hours or so to make sure that he wasn’t getting sick again. He spent the rest of his time writing to his colleagues in London about his current project and how he was adjusting to country life. By the time he finished his very drawn out letters it was nearing sunset and he could hear Anderson telling Sherlock that dinner was being prepared to be brought up.

He’s been recovering very nicely, he mused to himself as he folded his letters into envelopes and sealed them for post. The familiar knock on his door roused him from his reverie and he got up to answer the door to tell Anderson he had heard and he would be along in a moment. When he opened the door, however, it was Sherlock standing before him.

“Care to share a meal with me?” He leaned against the door frame and ran a hand through his tousled hair. “Friends share meals, right?” He didn’t wait for a reply and strode into the room and sat on the bed, arms braced behind him, legs spread slightly.

“I have heard it said that friends eat together from time to time. But most don’t share meals in their bedrooms. Would you like to move to the dining room?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched in amusement, almost cracking to a smile. “If you insist on being so proper I suppose I can play along for now.” He pushed himself off the bed and strode out of the room leaving a red faced John glaring into his back. John buttoned his vest and slid a jacket onto his shoulders and smoothed the creases as he left the room and closed the door behind them.

When he entered the dining room Sherlock was already seated and he was leaning back in his chair with his feet propped on the table. John noticed the table was set for three, one place next to Sherlock and one across the table from him. Anderson must have notified the Master of his brother’s willingness to eat at the table and decided to make a place for him. John shook his head and took his seat next to Sherlock.

“Not even a day fully recovered and you’re already trying to destroy the furniture?”

“This table has seen more than my feet upon it’s sturdy self. My being comfortable won’t hurt it anymore than the plates and platters placed upon it will.”

A voice from the stairway sounded, “someone’s feeling better.” Mycroft appeared a moment later and after seeing Sherlock’s unkempt posture rose an eyebrow and sighed. “Mother would be very disappointed to see her lovely dining table reduced to a footstool.”

“Ah, brother mine, it’s been awhile since I’ve been properly scolded. Thank you for reminding me of what our dear mother would have wanted.” He took his feet off the table and tipped his front chair legs down to meet the floor. “My apologies.”

Mycroft took his seat. “It seems the time spent in the fresh air perked you right up, Sherlock.” Sherlock said nothing to confirm nor deny the comment and after a couple moments a servant came out carrying a tray of soup bowls. Sherlock was still on a lighter diet to make it easier on his abused system but no one seemed to complain as the thin onion soup and crusty bread they shared was made with excellent care and was quite delicious.

John was in the middle of bringing a spoonful to his mouth when the weight of someone’s hand was present on his knee. He was startled enough to jerk his hand and succeeded in spilling his spoonful onto the tablecloth.

“Something the matter, Doctor Watson?” Mycroft had seen him jump but had not seen the cause.

John cleared his throat, “no, sir. Just burnt my lip. Soup is still a bit hot for me, I suppose. Quite good though, my compliments to your cook.”

Sherlock hadn’t moved his hand from his leg. In fact, he had slid his hand up to where his thigh and hip met and gripped it firmly. Not enough to cause pain but enough to let John know that he was very much there and intent on causing John discomfort of a very different kind.

He could feel himself blushing but tried to squash it down beneath a mask of culinary enjoyment. He blew on his next spoonful with more vigor than was probably necessary. _What is he getting at? Trying to give me a bloody heart attack in front of his brother?_ John wasn’t entirely sure what Sherlock’s game was but he was determined not to let it bother him. _If Sherlock is trying to play with me go ahead_ , he decided resolutely, _he most certainly won’t get anywhere with it._ And with that he finished his soup.

The servant came out to remove the used dishes and another one came out bringing coffee and a few biscuits for a light dessert. When they each were served the servant left the dining room and some talk was made between John and Mycroft about the appropriate amount of sugar in one’s coffee. John insisted no more than 2 cubes, Mycroft countered with no more than one. “You should be able to take in the notes of where the coffee came from,” he said. “You want to taste the sunshine, the wind, the fertilizer. They make up the rich body of a good cup of coffee,” he explained.

John was about to reply with no one should be able to taste fertilizer in their coffee when Sherlock joined in with, “much like you and me, brother mine, coffee is entirely too bitter without the sweetness sugar and cream provide. I myself never take less than three. There’s enough bitterness in the world without having to ingest it.” And with that he dropped three sugar cubes into his cup along with a generous splash of cream. This was the only time his hand had left John’s thigh. He had almost forgotten the weight placed upon him until it was removed and he felt the coolness of the air hit him in Sherlock’s absence.

He shouldn’t miss the closeness but, damn it, he did. He watched as Sherlock daintily stirred his coffee and breathed it in before taking a long sip. He watched as Sherlock licked his lips to lap up residual drips of the rich drink. John’s body tensed as he tried not to imagine the things he wanted to do with those lips. John scolded himself, _Damn him! I had almost convinced myself to be disinterested and not act upon my desires. He’s most definitely toying with me._

John finished his coffee in record time and excused himself, stated that he needed an early night. That he was going to take Sherlock on a walk of the grounds the next day and that he should get some much need rest.

“Yes,” Sherlock uttered behind tented fingers, “we both will need a lot of rest for tomorrow.” He gave John a knowing stare and watched him retreat from the room, his eyes burning into the back of his skull.

John, safe in his room from Sherlock’s staring eyes, leaned against the closed door and let out an exasperated breath. How did I let Sherlock get the upper hand here? _How could I let that insolent brat play me like his goddamned violin?_ He scolded himself as he undressed, as he washed for bed, as he slid into his bed clothes and slipped between his sheets. No more foolishness, he determined. I will not let myself fall into whatever game Sherlock is playing with me. And with that, he closed his eyes to sleep.

Even in his sleep he was uneasy. In his dreams he was plagued with images of Sherlock. He dreamed of them in his own bed, tangled in the sheets, breathing hotly into each other’s skin and devouring each other’s lips. John woke up sweating and hard with need. _He’ll never know,_ John consoled to himself as he reached beneath the sheets to grasp his throbbing cock. At the first touch his breath hitched and he suppressed a soft whine with his fist between his teeth.

Each stroke brought images of Sherlock to mind. Sherlock kissing him, Sherlock dragging nails along his back, Sherlock with his mouth stretched around his cock…

He let all his fantasies of Sherlock bring him closer. He ran his thumb along the underside of his cock, thumbing the little bead of nerves beneath the head. He writhed and moaned on the bed, careful not to make too much noise lest Sherlock hear him and decide to come knocking. The thought of discovery was too much for John to bear. He needed release and after a few minutes of frantic stroking and stifled groaning he came into his hand, twitching with spent desire. The images stopped coming and eventually his heartbeat slowed, his mind clouded with sleep and, finally, John succumbed to the bliss of dreamless sleep.

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**_ Ch. 7 _ **

 

The next morning John took extra care to clean himself and remove all trace of his indulgence the night before. There was nothing he could do about the sheets but he hoped that the staff would be discreet.

He stood in the center of his room with just a plain linen shirt draped over his chest, trousers in hand ready to be put on, when Sherlock burst into the room. “Good morning, John! Ready for our adventure into the woods?” The smile on his face got bigger at the sight of the doctor sputtering in embarrassment with no trousers on. “Am I  interrupting your morning routine, John?”

“Yes you very well are you inconsiderate dolt!” John skirted behind the bed to try to put some distance between his near nakedness and Sherlock’s full clothed self. “Don’t you knock anymore?”

“What have friends got to hide from each other, John?”

“Plenty,” he spat back and he pulled his trousers over his hips and secured the buttons. He tucked the tails and front in and glared at Sherlock, who seemed to be having a delightful time staring at him.

“Very clever of you to tell Mycroft that you were taking me for a walk. Like you know your way around these woods.” He stepped to the edge of the bed, trapping john between the other edge and the window. “I grew up on these grounds. I’ll be doing the showing.” He leaned forward and placed his hands on the bed. Right where John had slept. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. He could feel the dampness beneath his hands. He chuckled and walked out of the room telling John he would be in the stables when he was ready to get going.

John spent the next few minutes alone trying to decide if it would be reasonable at this moment to jump off the roof or ask for the gods of old to send down one of their ever present and trusty lightning bolts to put him out of his misery. Shaking his head he left the room and tried to convince himself that Sherlock had had his fun and that this would be a leisurely walk around the premises. That he wouldn’t goad or toy with him. He couldn’t make his assurances stick and resigned himself to a day of torture and headed towards the stables.

In the stables he found Sherlock harnessing a beautiful horse the color of fresh caramel. One of the stable boys was harnessing another one for John. His was as gray as a rainstorm with gray spots dotting it’s head. John wasn’t sure why they were talking horses on a pleasure walk but he didn’t ask questions and waited until the horse was set and he climbed into the saddle.

“I thought it would be easier to show you the whole grounds on horseback rather than on foot,” Sherlock explained as they set out from the stable. They headed for a well trod path that led into the wood. When they entered the canopy of leaves and branches John felt coolness envelope him. The sun wasn’t as harsh beneath the heavy leaves and made for a comfortable ride. They rode in silence for half an hour until they reached an opening to a clearing. It wasn’t large, just large enough for a hunting party to gather for a chase, about thirty meters across.

“If we continue going north,” Sherlock pointed in the distance, “ there’s a small river that makes for some decent fishing. That’s where our staff gets the fish for our table.” He turned westward and explained that that side of the forest stretched for about fifty miles and their claim to the land ended just shy of the next town over. “To the east we have several game trails that combine with the commons for the townsfolk and some local trails.” He faced John and continued to explain that their family let the townsfolk hunt game up to this meadow and that anything beyond was trespassing. Southward lead straight back towards the manor.

“Where would you like to go, John?”

John thought a moment and decided that a trip to the river wouldn’t go amiss. “Why don’t we take a look at these fishing spots you spoke of. Might be a lovely time later in the week.” Sherlock agreed and led them off towards the river.

The path was easy and just as well traveled as the one that lead to the clearing. In an hour they heard the soft whooshing of water followed by the sight of the river. Here the trees parted above them to send the sun’s rays down onto the water to dance in shimmers along its surface. The water flowed at a lazy pace, dragging at plant leaves that dipped into the river ever so slightly. It was a little wider than a man was tall and didn’t look terribly deep either. _Might be a great place for a morning or evening swim on a hot summer’s day,_ John mused.

They dismounted and tied the horses to a pair of trees so they could stretch their legs. They watched the river flow in front of them and after a few moments of walking they settled beneath a willow near the water’s edge. “What do you normally catch here?”

“Perch mostly,” Sherlock replied as he tossed a pebble into the river. “Every once in a while you get a young carp or something. But usually perch.”

“Quite fond of perch. Especially with a bit of butter and squeeze of lemon.” John leaned back against the tree and closed his eyes and just enjoyed the sound of the river as it flowed by. The soft rush of the water soon caused John to relax and eventually slip off into sleep.

When he awoke Sherlock was nowhere to be found. John in a bit of a panic leapt to his feet and ran back to where they had tied the horses. _Of course he took the bloody horses!_ John fumed at his stupidity at leaving Sherlock without supervision that left him in this predicament. He took a long drink of water from the cool river and splashed a bit on his face, he knew the walk would be long and that water would not come until he had reached the house.

The more he walked the more his feet hurt. The sorer his feet got the angrier he got at Sherlock. _Who did he think he was? Leading me out to the middle of the bloody forest and nicking the horses while I dozed! The man is insufferable and I will quit the moment I reach the house._ John seethed with anger and every little rock and branch that came his way soon became the bane of his existence as they tripped him and slapped him in the face while he traipsed through the wood.

They had left the house shortly after sunrise and John didn’t make it back to the house until well after noon. Sticking of sweat, sore and tired from his exertions he stomped across the yard towards the kitchen door until a familiar voice stopped him dead in his tracks. Sherlock’s voice floated from the stables and John was now determined to confront him and demand an explanation.

He burst into the stable, steam practically rolling from his ears and he pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock, “you.” Sherlock didn’t seem the slightest surprised or remorseful at his doctor’s current state. “Oh, John. We were just talking about you.”

A frightened stable hand who had barely shown the signs of puberty saw that trouble was brewing and made a hasty escape to safer ground. On his way out he gave the Doctor a look that screamed of apology before tearing out the down at record speed.

“You complete and utter cock!” John stormed across the stable to stand an inch from Sherlock’s face. “What in bloody hell was that about? Leaving me in the middle of the forest alone? Taking the horse was a nice touch. Quite enjoyed the walk. I now have blisters the size of oysters on my feet!” He paced the floor in front of them his face in a scowl and eyes glazed with anger. He jabbed a finger in Sherlock’s face, “explain yourself immediately!”

Sherlock took John’s finger in between his pointer finger and thumb and pushed it aside. “Well you looked so comfortable I didn’t want to disturb your rest.” He looked him straight in the eye and smiled an innocent smile.

“Plus, I thought that you would enjoy a nice walk. I’m told that the cure for a man’s nighttime desires can be cured with an excess of exercise and fresh air to dispel the extra energy. Thought I was helping you.” Sherlock’s smile turned into a cruel, toothy grin and he leaned into John’s face and cocked his head to the side. “What’re you going to do about it?”

In an instant Sherlock was slammed up against the wall of the empty stall behind them with John’s arm pinning him across the chest. “What am I going to do? What am I going to do he asks?” He reached between their bodies to grab Sherlock over his pants and watched as Sherlock’s eyes went wide with surprise. He struggled for a moment but when John combined his rubbing with a punishing, biting kiss Sherlock stopped trying to escape and tried to get a hold of John’s shoulders.

John unpinned Sherlock only to reach up to the back of his head to grip those dark locks and tugged his head back to deepen the kiss. John devoured Sherlock’s lips, biting harshly and licking tauntingly into his mouth. Just when Sherlock thought he could gain some control of the situation and reach down for John’s now stiff member, John pulled back. Sherlock stared back with questioning eyes, his mouth open, silent and unsure. John’s fingers still tangled in Sherlock’s hair gripped tighter to get his full attention. “Now, go take a walk. Tell me tomorrow whether it helped you with your nighttime desires. I doubt it will make any difference.” He let go of Sherlock with a small shove and left.

John made it to his room without his knees giving out beneath him. He closed the door behind him and only then did he allow himself to slide down it and sink to the floor. His body hurt, his mind was still racing and he had the most intense hardon that he had ever had in his life. _What on earth came over me? I shouldn’t have let him get the best of me. It’s not proper doctor/patient behavior._ He breathed slowly to get himself back under control.

He was already fleshing out his resignation letter in his head when he heard footsteps in the hall. He tensed up as he anticipated another run-in with Sherlock. He scooted away from the door and crawled to the edge of and then onto the bed. If Sherlock was going to charge in he would at least be in a dignified position.

Instead of the door slamming open with a flustered Sherlock behind it a firm knock sounded at the door. Odd. “Come in.”

John let out a relieved sigh when Anderson walked through the door. “Ah, Anderson. What can I do for you and could it possibly wait? I think I need a little while. That devil of a man just took all my energy for the morning.”

“I was told to inform you that Sherlock had requested a bath to be drawn for you. He told me to relay the message, ‘I hope this makes up for this morning’. He also said to tell you that he has chosen some bath salts and has requested a meal for you to take in private if you choose.” Anderson eyed him with curiosity, “what on earth did you do to him? The man has never apologized a day in his life.”

“I don’t think there was a ‘sorry’ attached anywhere in that message.”

“Doctor, I’ve known Sherlock since he was a babe in small clothes. Trust me, this is as close to an apology as you’re going to get.” Anderson waited for a response and receiving none said, “your bath is in the process of being drawn. It’ll be ready for you in a few moments. Your meal will be ready in time for dinner. Since you haven’t had anything to eat yet I’ll have a tray with some tea and crumpets sent to your room while you’re washing. Enjoy your evening, Doctor.”

John just sat there stunned. _What is he doing now? He should be going to his brother screaming about assault not treating me to a bath and food._ He put it out of his mind in favor of anticipation for warm water to soak his sore limbs in. He gathered a change of clothes and headed towards the washroom. He passed the stairs and at the foot of the staircase he saw Sherlock about to make his way to his room. They locked eyes and John could feel his face blush and he nearly sprinted to the washroom and shut the door.

Thankfully there were no servants in the room to see his graceless entry. He shook his head and tried to will his face back to a normal color as he undressed. The room smelled of jasmine and his mind threw him back to his first day with Sherlock. He resigned himself to a life permanently plagued with blushed cheeks and sank into the water.

The water did its job of relaxing him quite well. He stretched his legs and felt his toes squash against the wall of the tub and rubbed them against the warm, smooth, porcelain. It had been years since he took a proper bath, one that didn’t involve cool water and sponge. It was heavenly and he breathed in the steam and jasmine with a smile on his face.

He inspected his feet and was correct on his suspicions that the blisters he acquired on his unexpected romp through the woods had popped. They were tender but not bleeding, for which he was very thankful. They would be sore tomorrow but wouldn’t stop John from walking normally.

He washed everywhere on his body with the sponge provided and delighted at its rough texture against his skin. He waited until the water was too cool to sit in anymore and climbed out of the tub to towel off. Once he was fully dressed and refreshed he peeked out the door. With his head stuck out he looked both ways and not a hair of Sherlock to be seen.

John slipped out of the room as quietly as he could and pulled the door gently shut. He tiptoed back to his room and after he saw that Sherlock’s door was closed he opened his door and locked himself in his room.

As promised, the tray of tea and crumpets were laid on John’s desk. At the sight of food John’s stomach growled and rumbled at him and he fell on the crumpets with no mercy. The tea was a tad cooler than desirable but he had just spent an inordinate amount of time pruning in the bath. Still, the tea was sweet and went down without complaint. When the tray was empty and the teapot exhausted John was at a loss for what to do. He had not brought any books with him, his letters were written and on their way to London and he was currently hiding from his patient. Just as he was contemplating a nap he heard the sound of Sherlock’s violin. Figuring that he would be occupied for awhile John took the chance to escape and creeped from his room and headed to the house library.

It was a modest library for the house of such a family as the Holmes’. It was decorated with red striped wallpaper, red velvet curtains and darkwood chairs that had red velvet upholstery. There was also a fireplace on one wall that was cold now due to the warmth of the summer weather. The bookshelves started at waist height and stretched to the ceiling. John perused the spines and settled on a book of Chaucer’s poems. He read until the light dimmed in the room signalling sunset. He closed it and rubbed his eyes. By his estimation dinner would be ready soon. He was just about to set off towards the dining room when Anderson appeared in the doorway. “Your dinner is ready. Would you prefer to eat in the dining room or in your room tonight, sir?”

“Better be the bedroom tonight, I think.” He closed the book and placed it on the table. Anderson left him and John made his way back to his bedroom, curious as to what Sherlock had chosen for his meal.

He was not disappointed. Sherlock remembered his fondness for perch and on a little dinner tray was a delicately broiled perch with a small dish of melted butter, slices of lemon and a side of small potatoes with garlic butter and parsley.

John tucked in and groaned in pleasure. Their cook was amazingly skilled as the fish flaked away beautifully and not a rogue scale anywhere on his plate. He ate slowly, savoring each bite. Even something as mundane as potatoes were welcomed eagerly to his hungry body and in no time at all his plate was empty and John was all kinds of surprised and pleased. He sat back in his chair and let the afterglow of the meal descend as the sun began to dip in the corner of his window.

He watched the sun and the birds sink in the sky and when both had disappeared he stretched and decided to turn in early. The medical mind in him wanted to make sure Sherlock was doing alright and peek in on him. But the embarrassed school boy in him wanted to climb under the covers and forget the whole exchange earlier had never happened. As is the case with most men the school boy won out and before long John was slipped beneath the covers, eyes squeezed shut to will sleep to come to him. This night was particularly hot and he decided to sleep nude to try to keep comfortable in the night. He had cracked a window before turning in to let in some of the light summer breeze air and soon it carried him off to sleep.

Some time later he awoke to a breath of warm air against the back of his neck. Which was odd as he was facing the window and so the breeze would hit his face before his neck. His eyes slowly opened with the realization that there was an arm that was not attached to him draped across his waist and there was a wall of warmth against his back that was also not attached to him.

_Sherlock is in my bed._ John was panicking, _what do I do, what do I do what do I do…_

__

“Sher-”

“Shh,” Sherlock dragged a sleepy hand to John’s lips and pressed a finger to them, “mm-bad dream.” He nuzzled his face into John’s neck and wrapped his arms tightly around John’s waist.

“Are you wearing any pants?”

Sherlock’s drowsy voice huffed, “no,” into his ear and made John tense at the realization that his fantasy of having a naked Sherlock in his bed had become an extremely real reality. He was not dreaming. He was currently playing little spoon against Sherlock’s cock.

_Well, hell. All chance of sleep is out right the bloomin’ window_. He tried not to shift in any way that would bring either of their bodies to awareness at the intimacy of the situation. “What did you dream,” John asked. There had to be a reason Sherlock decided to slip into his bed.

“I dreamt that I was at a party,” Sherlock yawned mid-sentence, “and they told me to talk to people. Absolutely horrifying.”

John rolled his eyes. “Seriously? And that’s a reason to sneak into my bed at an ungodly hour and cuddle me pants-less?”

“S’as good as any, don’t you think?” He could tell that Sherlock wasn’t as sleepy as he feigned.

“How long have you been here?” He shifted uncomfortably as he felt a bulge form against his cheeks. Clearly, Sherlock was becoming less and less interested in polite conversation.

“About an hour. I dozed for a bit but I mostly watched you sleep. You’re so relaxed while you sleep, it’s almost beautiful.” He lifted his head from their pillow and breathed into John’s ear, “but you’re more beautiful when you’re blushing. Face all flushed and eyes wide like a frightened deer.” He sucked John’s earlobe into his mouth and sucked softly.

John gasped at Sherlock’s forwardness and tried to shift away. Sherlock was having none of it and pulled him in close and threw a leg over John’s hip to hold him. He felt Sherlock’s body move against him, his cock sliding up between John’s cheeks to seek friction. Sherlock’s hands began to wander, one across his chest bringing John’s nipples to attention, the other down between his legs to grip and rub his thigh. He had moved from John’s earlobe to soft, exploratory kisses along his neck and shoulder.     

John’s breath came shorter and more desperate. He didn’t know where to put his hands. One arm was awkwardly pinned to the mattress, the hand clenched in the sheets. The other arm he bent back to slide along Sherlock’s thigh. He gripped the flesh and dug his nails in. Sherlock hissed into his neck in return. John found himself arching into Sherlock’s movements, his body begging him to stop toying and grab his cock. He whined with need and bit his lip.

Sherlock chuckled at John’s noises, “clearly the walk this morning didn’t do anything to diffuse your body’s need.” He laid his hand along John’s length and pressed it to John’s stomach, the pressure causing John to suck in a breath. “Tell me what you need John,” he said as he closed his fist around him and John shuddered.

“Come, John. I can’t do anything until you tell me what it is you need,” he teased. He squeezed John’s cock softly but he kept his hand stationary to deny John the friction he so desperately needed.

“I-I..Sherlock…” he stuttered. He wanted to tell him to pump his pulsing member until he screamed into the pillow, that he wanted Sherlock to slide fingers inside him and stretch him open, he wanted Sherlock to take him in the most unseemly manner. But he didn’t want any of that as bad as he wanted to wipe the smug grin he knew to be on Sherlock’s face.

He lurched out of Sherlock’s arms and in a second Sherlock was on his back, his mouth agape with surprise and barely contained desire. John was astride Sherlock’s hips and he brought Sherlock’s arms to rest beside his head in a firm grip against the pillow. He crushed Sherlock’s lips with his own and parted them with a little flick of his tongue, seeking entry. While Sherlock struggled to regain control John licked into his mouth tasting him. He tortured Sherlock’s lips, bruising them beneath his teeth. When Sherlock stopped struggling John pulled away and stared at those reddened, glistening lips.

“What I need is for you to use those lips for something useful for a change.” He let Sherlock’s arms go and slid down the lithe body beneath him to give Sherlock room to move. They untangled their legs and stared at each other on their knees each waiting for the other to look away.    

Sherlock leaned into John and cupped his cheek to kiss him. John snatched his hand and tangled his other hand in Sherlock’s hair. “I didn’t mean wasting precious moonlight on school boy kisses.” He tilted Sherlock’s head and whispered in his ear, “I want you to swallow me.” He felt Sherlock shiver against him. “I want you to suck my cock until I fill your mouth and spill down your throat.”

With Sherlock’s hair still gripped tightly he guided him man to his hips. Sherlock went willingly and let a small groan slip before he flicked his tongue out for an experimental taste. John’s cock twitched in anticipation as Sherlock breathed hotly against his skin. John loosened his fingers ever so slightly and Sherlock as a sign to continue and he dragged his long tongue along John’s length, base to head, and John sucked in a ragged breath.

Sherlock opened wide to take him fully, his head hitting the back of Sherlock’s throat. On the pull back Sherlock sucked, his lips squeezed around John. He slid John’s cock in and out slowly at first but when John couldn’t contain his groaning Sherlock picked up speed. He placed his hands on John’s thighs  and gripped them to steady his rhythm. John tried to cover his moans by biting his knuckles, god his mouth! John found himself rocking into his mouth ever so slightly. He wanted to bury himself inside Sherlock, wanted more than his mouth. But it’s so good, so close…

“Sherlock, I’m…I’m going to,” John panted.

Sherlock stopped long enough to tell him, “do it John. I want to taste all of you.”

Hearing that sent John over the edge and he came in Sherlock’s mouth with as a silent scream tore from him. He shivered and twitched with the last spasms of his orgasm and pulled Sherlock off him with a small pop. He pushed Sherlock back into the mattress and covered his mouth with kisses. He tasted himself, salty and bitter, but he loved it. Made him wonder what their combined juices would taste like. It was almost enough for him to get hard again but he had other plans in mind. He wanted Sherlock to enjoy himself too.

With their lips still attached John took hold of Sherlock and he began to stroke him, slowly but intently. Sherlock moaned into John’s lips and arched his body into John’s. John kissed his neck and bit him at the soft spot beneath his ear. Sherlock writhed beneath him with frantic need and did absolutely nothing to dampen the sounds he made. As if he didn’t care if the rest of the house knew that his doctor was stroking him to orgasm.

_But damn it if those moans don’t make me want to go another round,_ John mused. “Go ahead Sherlock, tell me what you need,” he mocked as his hand picked up speed. His answer was sharp nails raked down his back and a desperate whine, “I want you in me.”

“Never pegged you for a bottom, Sherlock,” he teased as he trailed bites down Sherlock’s chest.

“John,” he said through gritted teeth.

“How about a compromise for now,” John said before slipping two fingers in Sherlock’s mouth. Even though Sherlock's eyes were closed John sensed they were rolling with John’s apparent oral fixation and he sucked them till they were soaked. John placed the first finger against Sherlock’s hole and waited for some kind of confirmation before Sherlock raised his hips and practically backed himself onto John’s finger. The first finger slid in easily but the change in Sherlock’s face was almost immediate. His eyes opened at the intrusion but snapped shut again as he bit his lip.

“Is this what you need? You want to be stretched open beneath me?” John twisted upwards sharply and hit his intended target, grazing Sherlock’s prostate. He grinned when Sherlock let loose a sob of need and began rocking into his hand. He slipped another finger inside and he thought that Sherlock was going to lose it. With fingers inside him and a skilled hand on his cock John swiftly brought Sherlock to orgasm, gasping and spasming beneath him.

John brought the hand covered with come to his mouth and licked a bit off his finger. Sherlock tasted different. Sweeter somehow. Maybe he wasn’t kidding with the sweetness thing. At any rate, John was thoroughly exhausted and could tell Sherlock was too.

“I can’t wait to fill your arse as I filled your mouth. But for now, sleep. Lord knows you need it.” After some clumsy configuring John took the role of big spoon to Sherlock. He kissed his shoulder and heard Sherlock’s soft, contented sigh in return. As John slipped off to sleep he wondered how he was ever going to get enough of Sherlock and whether or not Sherlock had had enough of him.   

When John awoke the next morning he was alone. He laid a hand in the place where Sherlock had slept and buried his face in the pillow that held his head. It smelled of jasmine and sex. He sighed involuntarily and he breathed in their scent as he pushed his face into the pillow. How he wished Sherlock hadn’t left. He wanted to kiss the lips that wrought such pleasure from him. Wanted to kiss the eyelids on the face he couldn’t erase from his mind. But alas, here he was.

He rose and walked to the window to see the sun that had moved in the sky and brought with it the new day. He thought briefly about washing before dressing but decided against it. He loved the way he smelled the morning after. After all, it was the only reminder of their night together after Sherlock slipped away from him.

John peeked out of room to find Sherlock’s door closed and his heart sank with a feeling of dread. _Had I done something wrong? Was it just a game for him?_ A storm of questions swirled in his mind as he slipped down the stairs in search of the kitchen.

When he glided past the dining room on his search for breakfast he heard a soft but insistent, “John.” It stopped him in his tracks, cold sweat broke out and his heart hammered in his chest. _Sherlock…_

He tried to calm his breath as he backtracked and stepped into the dining room. Sherlock was sitting there, elbows on the table, fingers tented and lips pressed to his fingertips. A quick scan of the room told John that they were alone. It also showed him that the table was set for two. While there was no food present the scent of coffee attacked his nostrils from a tray set on the far end of the table. He stepped up behind the empty place setting and cleared his throat. “Morning Sherlock. Sleep well?”

A smile cracked on Sherlock’s face, “better than I have in years. Thanks, in large part, to you.” He gestured to the table in front of him and John took the hint and sat. Sherlock produced a bell from the inside of his coat and at it’s tinkling sound the doors from kitchen swung out and a servant carrying a tray heaped with berries, cream, toast and jam. _He really loves his sweets…_

__

They served themselves toast and chewed silently as the servant filled their coffee cups and poured the desired amount of cream and sugar before disappearing back into the kitchen. John watched as Sherlock plucked a blackberry from the dish of mixed berries between them. It looked plump and juicy and he caught himself staring as Sherlock brought it to his lips and took the berry between his teeth and a drop of juice stained his thumb. He licked his lips as Sherlock sucked his thumb. _That’s it, I’m ruined. You’ve ruined me Sherlock,_ John whined internally. He tore his eyes away and directed them to the boring plate in front of him.

“I don’t think I’ve ruined you, John.” John’s head snapped up at that and a blush of intense embarrassment blossomed across his face.

“I, I beg your pardon,” John croaked. Did I say that out loud?

Sherlock chuckled as he popped a raspberry into his mouth. “I said. I haven’t ruined you.” He eyed him in amusement. “You really should take better care with your thoughts, John Watson, lest they run away without you and slip off the tip of your tongue.”

The rest of their breakfast was silent but thick with unresolved tension. John sipped his coffee, Sherlock popped berry after berry, John refused to watch. When they finished Sherlock pushed back from the table and asked for John to accompany him to the stables. John was uneasy about the change in scenery but he was not in control of his limbs. They followed Sherlock willingly despite his brain screaming at him _he’s toying with you, dummy! Don’t play his game!_ But his body wouldn’t listen and he walked a few steps behind Sherlock as they made their way to the stables.

Sherlock walked unhurriedly to one of the horses who, upon hearing their arrival, poked it’s head out of it’s stall hoping for a bit of grain or an apple snack. Sherlock pet it’s head and John stood there, unsure of how to proceed.

He didn’t have to wait too long before Sherlock broke the silence. “I spoke with Mycroft this morning.” John winced. _Here it comes. You’re fired and your career is ruined._

“And?”

“And. I’ve requested for you to stay indefinitely.”

John felt like he’d been punched as the air left his body. His knees felt weak but he refused to give into shock and forced himself to focus on the words Sherlock was saying.

“I asked him if we could keep you. I’ve longed for a companion who can match me in intensity my entire life.” He turned to face the shivering doctor. “I believe I found it in you, John.”

John answered by closing the space between them, cupping Sherlock’s face, and kissing him. There was none of the biting harshness of their previous kisses. This kiss was sweet, deep and opened them both completely. Sherlock sighed into John and wrapped his arms around John’s waist to pull him closer.

John moved one hand from Sherlock’s face to press into the small of his back. The other slipped along his neck and tipped Sherlock’s head back so John could deepen the kiss. The kiss turned hungry once John let it sink in that he was wanted and not about to be turned away. He suddenly needed everything from Sherlock. He stepped back, breaking the kiss, and looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock’s eyes smiled where his lips did not. They danced with happiness, mischief, and desire.

Experimentally John slipped Sherlock’s jacket off his shoulders and they let it drop to the floor. Without a word Sherlock pressed a hand to the center of John’s chest and pushed, encouraging John to step backward. He guided them to the same empty stall where they first kissed and this time John was the one crushed into the wall. 

Sherlock wasted no time as he dipped his head to John’s neck. He felt John’s pulse flutter at the presence of his hot breath on his skin. John gripped the back of Sherlock’s head and slid his other hand beneath Sherlock’s shirt to gently drag nails down his back. Sherlock arched into John and bit John’s collarbone to make a breath of a bruise against his pale skin.

Annoyed with the fabric separating them, John tugged at Sherlock’s shirt and pulled it up over his head. He made short work of his own and crushed their lips together. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and in a second they were on the floor of the stall. The hay itched against John’s back but with Sherlock’s lips against his chest he didn’t care. Instinctively John gripped Sherlock’s hips with his thighs, boxing him in. Their hips and groins pressed against each other deliciously and elicited breathy moans from both of them.

Sherlock reached between them and tugged John’s pants off his hips and grabbed his hardened cock. John sucked a breath between his teeth and rocked slightly into Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock smiled as he watched John fall apart beneath him. Every stroke brought John closer, brought more and more desperate moans.

After a couple moments Sherlock breathed into John’s ear, “I want you to fulfill your promise from last night, John.”

John, dazed and confused, just looked at him, mouth agape.

“I want you to fuck me, John. Fill my arse as you filled my mouth.”

His own words flung back at him were almost too much and when he was about to say as much all words were choked out of him when Sherlock’s mouth enveloped him. His toes curled, fingers clenched in Sherlock’s hair as he tried to hold onto his stamina. “Sher-, Sherlock,” he gasped, “what abou-”

“What do you think I did for the better part of the morning, John? You were asleep for hours longer than I was and my conversation with Mycroft only last a few moments.” He kissed him and flicked a tongue behind John’s teeth. “I didn’t want to waste any time with necessities.” He dipped his head for a couple of quick licks and sucked at John’s head to make sure he was slick enough. When he was deemed suitably wet enough Sherlock straddled him, poised directly above John’s stiff and waiting cock, John’s hands on his hips.

“John,” Sherlock whispered. John stared into Sherlock’s eyes. “Are you ready?”

“God, yes,” John gasped.

With his permission granted Sherlock guided and pressed John’s head to his hole and pushed himself down it’s length slowly until their hips met. They were still for a moment to get used to the new sensations. John’s hands gripped him, fingers digging into Sherlock’s sides as Sherlock clenched around him.

Sherlock started to move against him, arms braced against John’s chest for balance. Sherlock rode him, sliding up and down. He gripped him every time John’s cock brushed his prostate causing both of them groan loudly. The slow pace nearly undid John, he wanted to draw their coupling out and savor it. He pushed himself up and locked lips with Sherlock and held him to prevent him from his rocking. Sherlock was determined and even as John held him he ground his hips into John’s seeking any friction he could get.

It was too much, John needed to come. He gripped Sherlock’s buttocks tightly and twisted their bodies so that it Sherlock was on his back. John, now in control, snapped his hips faster and faster, bringing them both closer to the edge. Sherlock’s cries echoed in his ears as he bent their heads together. Sherlock dragged his nails down his back and rose to meet every thrust and in a moment John cried out in his orgasm, spilling into Sherlock. Seeing Sherlock hadn’t reached his own climax he reached between them to grab his twitching member and pump it until he too came, painting his own chest with his semen.

John collapsed onto Sherlock, his cock still twitching inside him. “John,” Sherlock panted into John’s shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Does this mean you’ll stay?”

John chuckled and kissed him softly. “Yes. I will be your companion, Sherlock.” And as they lay there slowly coming to their senses John couldn’t picture anything better than a life in the country with a brat man-child.  

 


End file.
